


under thy tongue

by makemadej (santamonicayachtclub)



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Barebacking, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Massage, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sharing a Bed, bible fandom don't @ me, gratuitous song of solomon quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27239293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santamonicayachtclub/pseuds/makemadej
Summary: Ryan sprains his ankle because basketball and ends up staying at Steven's place. Guess how many beds there are.
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej, Ryan Bergara/Steven Lim, but like one-sided and just a tad
Comments: 32
Kudos: 87





	under thy tongue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fraudgara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fraudgara/gifts).



> This takes place in the before times, a whole different era, aka the summer of 2018 when touching people was still a thing that happened. I'm fudging the timeline a little because I'm pretty sure Steven was already in New York by the time Shane went to Iceland, but who's counting?

A botched block, a buckling ankle, and it begins.

Ryan on the court is Ryan in his element—one of them, anyway. Steven has learned, in his years of knowing him, that Ryan is lucky enough to possess many elements. This one has him dripping sweat and determination, never going easy on Steven despite the discrepancy in their skills (and, Steven privately thinks, their heights). Normally, Steven appreciates the challenge, but this time he finds himself clutching his face and wishing, just once, that Ryan had held back just a little.

Instead, Ryan leaps to make a shot and Steven launches himself forward to prevent it, just like he’s done a hundred other times. And, like a hundred other times, they collide. Specifically, Ryan’s forehead smashes against Steven’s cheekbone and Ryan himself ricochets onto the asphalt.

Steven flashes back at least twenty years—roughhousing with his brother, just two boys playing ball until it ends with tears and a skinned knee. 

Between them, they’ve got both covered and then some.

“I'm sorry,” Steven wails, even though he shares the blame with bad luck and gravity. His eyes are still watering from the force of Ryan’s headbutt. “Ryan, I’m so sorry. Can you stand?”

His knee is bleeding and his ankle, when they inspect it, is tender to the touch. 

“Maybe?” Ryan says. “But I really, really don’t want to tempt fate right now.”

Two hours and one trip to urgent care for meds and crutches and an officially diagnosed mild sprain later, Steven makes him an offer.

“You can stay with me until you’re ready to put weight on it. If you want. I mean, you don’t have to deal with stairs at my place and you’re kind of my responsibility.”

“Says who?” Ryan demands, but he doesn’t argue.

“Buddhism, I think? Anyway, I should keep an eye on you ’cause I did this to you.”

“Stevie boy,” Ryan says, a little loopy from painkillers, but still sharp-eyed as ever. “It was an accident. You don't owe me.”

* * *

He does, though.

Ryan’s bedroom is on the second floor, which is one problem. Another is that he insists on not taking more than a day off work even though both their shows are in a lull between seasons and there’s plenty of planning that can be done remotely. His co-host isn’t even working at all—Shane is less than two days into a two-week trip to Iceland.

Within twenty-four hours, Steven gets a call from Ryan. 

“Hey man, does the offer still stand? Because I don’t think I can survive living in my living room. How unfair is that? Also my roommates keep doing annoying shit like walking through it while I’m trying to sleep. Walking! Who does that?”

Steven waits for a break in his tirade to respond, and he doesn’t hesitate when he gets his chance. “Yeah, of course.”

“Thank god,” Ryan breathes, audibly relieved. “You know I even looked up a WikiHow for the best way to handle stairs and I still had my life flash before my eyes like fifteen times? I felt like one of those old-school Life Alert commercials waiting to happen.”

Steven picks him up later that evening. He totes Ryan’s carryon bag and laptop out to the Tesla, then waits with his crutches at the bottom of the stairs as Ryan makes his way down by scooting on his butt. 

“Thanks for not taking a video of that,” he says, giving Steven a look that’s part grin and part grimace. “Somewhere in Iceland, Shane is feeling really disappointed and doesn’t know why.”

“Did you tell him what happened?”

“Yeah.” Ryan rolls his eyes. “He said he can’t leave me alone for five minutes, which I totally knew was coming. Then he suggested I go soak in a hot spring because I guess that’s what he’s doing with Sara tomorrow. Or today, if we’re talking Icelandic time.”

“Tell him,” Steven says calmly, helping him into the car, “that you aren’t alone.”

* * *

Seeing Ryan injured has a thorny seed of discomfort sprouting in Steven’s gut. Not because the sprain has dulled any of Ryan’s usual shine—for his first day back at work, he’s as chipper and chatty as if nothing happened—but because it’s his fault. Hurting Ryan feels almost obscene, like Steven’s slashed the canvas of a beautiful painting or chiseled a crack into a sculpture.

He finds solace in watching Ryan get fussed over by approximately everyone in the Buzzfeed bullpen. Quinta shows him how to distribute his weight on his crutches. Jen and Daysha each write their names on the compression wrap he’s wearing over an Ace bandage. Steven ventures out of the Tasty headquarters and nearly gets bowled over by Keith, who’s tearing down the hall while pushing a hysterically giggling Ryan in an office chair like a bobsledder. 

And of course, there are hugs and gasps and many, many retellings of how Ryan is so epically amazing at all things basketball that Steven basically threw himself at him in a jealous rage. 

Steven makes a token effort to defend himself, but mostly lets it slide.

* * *

Other forms of discomfort are harder to assuage. 

Steven tends to run cold, so he keeps his apartment at a comfortably cozy temperature. Ryan, on the other hand, runs several degrees hotter. One day into his sojourn at Steven’s and he’s taken to wearing nothing but basketball shorts and the most threadbare t-shirts known to man. 

And, occasionally, less than that. 

After he has a bath, Steven appoints himself the dubious honor of making sure Ryan doesn’t concuss himself during the trip between bathroom and bedroom. Ryan makes the transition just fine, concentrating so hard on crutching his way down the hall that he doesn’t spare a glance for Steven’s slack-jawed expression, which is just as well. Steven is shedding brain cells like Ryan is shedding water droplets off his steam-flushed skin. Not that he didn’t already know it before, but Ryan is _sculpted_.

Steven is perhaps more aware than most just how sculpted he is—he’s used it to his advantage many times, whether by enlisting Ryan’s help in carrying heavy packages or making him go shirtless after losing a bet—but the novelty of Ryan being in _his_ apartment, clad in nothing but one of _his_ towels, is a whole new level of awareness.

It’s impossible for Steven not to stare at the way his abs flex each time he swings himself forward, the way the towel is slung low enough to bare the trail of hair below his navel. He hasn’t dried off very thoroughly and water trails in abstract patterns down the breadth of his shoulders, the solid swell of his arms, the deep, devastating cut of his hips. The towel is blocking the rest of the view, but Steven's imagination blithely continues the trail down the small of his back, his thighs, the crest of his buttocks.

“Thanks, bro,” Ryan tells him, settling on the edge of the bed and propping his crutches against the footboard in one smooth movement that involves a truly abhorrent amount of rippling muscle. 

He’s beautiful. 

Steven leaves to give him some privacy no matter how vehemently the baser part of his brain insists he should stick around in case Ryan strains himself putting on his pajamas.

Playing the good Samaritan can be a complicated affair. 

* * *

Then there's the issue of the couch. 

First of all, there isn’t much of one. Steven has been making do with a cheap Ikea futon, which is perfectly serviceable but not built to accommodate a six-foot tosser-turner accustomed to memory foam. 

It doesn’t help that Steven is in the process of having his things transported to New York, which means his apartment is very much in a liminal state. Most of his furniture has either been shipped or sold. The hominess is being bled out of his home, little by little, and that makes it harder than usual to find his center and sink into it. There’s an off-putting impersonality radiating from all the emptiness, and having Ryan’s unfamiliar presence around just heightens it.

At first, Steven swaths himself in a spare blanket and lies as still as a statue to avoid disturbing him. Then he leaves the couch to make himself some tea. Then he leaves it again to journal out some of his antsiness. And a third time, to curl up with his Bible and let the word lull him to sleep. On a given night, any one of these is usually enough to soothe him. This time, when he finally dozes off, it’s with all three of them scattered around him like points on a wayward compass.

It’s still dark outside when he opens his eyes. There’s a horrible crick in his neck, his feet are freezing from the afghan sliding half onto the floor, and Ryan is standing over him, balanced on his crutches and frowning. 

“Dude, you’re clearly suffering out here.” 

Steven gropes for his glasses. “What?”

Ryan jerks his head towards the bedroom. “C’mon.”

“Your ankle...” Steven says muzzily, as if Ryan’s somehow forgotten about it.

“It’s a sprain, not a compound fracture. I’ve got a nice pillow mountain to keep it elevated, so just don’t knock that over and it’ll be fine.”

And so they share Steven's bed that night.

He can’t remember the last time he slept so well.

* * *

Once they establish they can make it through the nights without incident, mornings become significantly more interesting.

Steven’s daily routine is straightforward. He gets out of bed, cues up a podcast or an upbeat playlist depending on his mood, usually showers, makes breakfast, does his hair. Trying not to stare too long at Ryan, tangled in his sheets with his mouth parted and his t-shirt riding up his middle, has not historically been part of that routine.

Ryan has a knack for making himself at home just about anywhere, but Steven’s never seen it in action quite like this. Or inaction, more accurately. The stack of pillows Ryan’s been using to elevate his right foot is the only thing still in place. The rest of him has starfished across the mattress with an abandon that makes Steven wonder how in the world Shane deals with it when the two of them share a bed on location. Or maybe it’s just that Steven’s bed is comfortable to the point of indulgence. 

The combined weight of his gaze and his thoughts must be borderline tangible because Ryan’s eyes slit open. 

Steven doesn’t have a chance to act like he’s been doing anything other than gaping at him in his sleep. His mind momentarily whites out in panic, but if Ryan minds being gaped at he doesn’t show it. To the contrary, he stretches with the insouciance of a cat, letting his spine arch off the bed and his shirt bunch up even more. 

“Hey there, Stevie boy.”

Steven is bowled over by a sudden urge to lick him, to sink his teeth into him, to taste as many parts of his beautiful body as Ryan will allow.

“I’m gonna make, uh, oatmeal,” he fumbles, and flees.

The next day, he handles himself a little better now that he knows what to expect. He rouses before his alarm goes off, thanks to the realization that his head is cushioned on Ryan’s shoulder instead of a pillow. 

Ryan himself is out like a light, one hand cradling the back of Steven’s head as if he’s cuddling a teddy bear. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, one that reflexively makes Steven squirm a bit, but not an unpleasant one.

Steven has never really bought into the interpretation that the Song of Songs is one hundred percent allegorical. It always struck him as a little too steamy, for lack of a better word, to be the depiction of tender love between God and the church. Solomon 2:6 floats through his memory, resonating on the most literal level:

_His left hand should be under my head, and his right hand should embrace me._

Ryan’s other hand is slung above his head. If it drifted down to reenact the rest of the verse, Steven wouldn’t say no. He drifts back to sleep.

The day after that, he wakes to find Ryan’s good leg slung over one of his, notching their ankles together. 

Warmth pools in his bones.

Steven resets his alarm to prolong the feeling.

* * *

Saturday rolls around, which means sleeping in. 

Normally, Steven wakes up with his first alarm, while Ryan snoozes his a few times and eventually crutches his way out of bed at least a half hour later, which staggers their respective starts to the day quite nicely. 

Weekends are a wild card.

Steven lets himself indulge the way he usually does, drifting between sleep and the waking world for as long as his type-A mind will allow, tangled around his body pillow.. 

The shape and pressure of it molds against him so perfectly, honed by years of Steven manhandling it into submission. It doesn’t occur to him not to grind into that pressure a little, mouth dropped open, eyes closed against the sunlight trickling in between his blinds. A gentle moan bubbles up the center of his body, building in the pit of his throat until he muffles it against one of the pillow’s seams, the topstitching rubbing pleasurably against his lips. 

His body pillow doesn’t have topstitching.

In fact, his body pillow isn’t even in the bed anymore. He packed it off for New York a few days ago, along with a sizable portion of his wardrobe.

His pillow also isn’t warm to the touch. It doesn’t press closer to him of its own volition, moving in little rhythmic pushes that have urgency cresting in Steven’s groin. And it definitely doesn’t have fingers that loosely curl themselves in the dip of his spine. 

The inconsistencies just keep stacking up until Steven can’t ignore them anymore. Reluctantly, he eases just awake enough to open one eye.

Ryan’s there, of course. Ryan is so very _there_ that Steven can smell the lingering scent of his soap, something that contains bergamot and mixes not unpleasantly with the color-locking conditioner of Steven’s that he’s been dipping into after forgetting to bring his own. He’s shed his half of the blankets sometime in the night, a devastating habit Steven can’t bring himself to disapprove of. Steven’s mouth is parted against the shoulder seam of his sleep shirt. 

“Huh,” Steven mumbles. “Topstitching.”

Ryan grunts something in his sleep. His right leg has migrated away from its designated pillow stack and is thrown carelessly over Steven’s hip, which adds a whole new level of alarm to a predicament that’s already way too alarming for a lazy Saturday morning. His other leg is nestled between both of Steven’s, which is too much for Steven to let himself process just yet.

He squirms experimentally, testing his ability to untangle them without running the risk of bumping Ryan’s ankle.

Ryan, distressingly, just hugs him tighter. 

Steven mentally recites the Lord’s prayer, first in English and then much more haltingly in Mandarin. He holds each inhale for three seconds, then exhales for five. 

“Ryan?” he tries. 

Ryan makes a soft, guttural noise and does absolutely nothing.

 _“Ryan_ ,” Steven pleads again. 

“Ugh,” Ryan says accusingly. 

Steven has never been so ecstatic to hear someone’s early-morning waspishness. “You’re awake!”

“’Course I am. You were, like, panting right in my ear,” Ryan complains. 

“Your ear is unusually close to my face,” Steven agrees. He’s simultaneously too tired and too turned on to argue. “In my defense.”

Now it’s Ryan who cracks an eye open, blearily taking in their proximity to each other, or lack thereof. “Oh. Huh.” But he makes no effort to move.

“I normally sleep with a body pillow,” Steven explains.

Ryan utters a wheezy laugh. “Is it embarrassing confession time? Because I usually jerk off first thing in the morning.” 

“There’s nothing embarrassing about body pillows,” Steven protests, his reflexive response whenever this comes up. “They’re very therapeutic.”

“And jerking off isn’t?”

“I don’t know, Ryan,” Steven says crossly. “Convince me.”

Ryan isn't listening to him. He's already rambling on about how he doesn’t blame him if Steven decides he’s worn out his welcome.

When Steven's words finally register, they do so spectacularly. Ryan all but screeches to a halt, eyes going wide. “Wait, _what_?”

Steven moves his hips in a tight, subtle circle against the pillow still pressed between his legs, the one now identifiable as Ryan’s thigh. He could give Ryan an out, specify that he means for him to take himself to the bathroom, or claim that he’s about to get up anyway and leave him to it.

But he doesn’t. “You heard me, Bergara.”

Ryan laughs nervously, but makes no move to put any space between the two of them. “What, like just whip it out?”

“Don't mind me.” Steven waves a hand vaguely. “I'm mostly asleep.”

“Dude.” Ryan's intonation hovers between _holy shit, you've gotta be kidding_ and _holy shit, you're really not kidding._ Steven waits patiently for it to decide which side to settle on.

When Ryan shifts onto his back, moving his injured leg off Steven and back onto its pillow pile, he thinks he's gotten his answer.

But Ryan glances over at him, hesitant. His pupils are so dilated Steven can barely make out the deep, rich brown of his irises. There’s a thumb tucked under his waistband. He's hard, the bulge of his cock clearly evident under the front panel of his boxers. 

Steven wants to cup him under his hand, learn how much it takes to have Ryan whimpering and pressing up into his touch. He wants to card his fingers through Ryan’s bed-ruffled mop of hair until he's dazed and lax and so eager to be kissed he won't think twice about letting him. 

It’s starting to look like Ryan maybe, just maybe, would let him.

“I—” Ryan starts. His lashes flit against his cheeks, teeth flirting with the fullness of his lower lip. Steven couldn’t look away from him if he wanted to. “You know what, this is—” 

“It’s _fine_ ,” Steven interjects, keeping his voice calm and deliberate. “Do what you’d normally do if I wasn’t here. Or you can tell me what you think about, if that's your thing. It'll be the ultimate team building activity.”

That gets Ryan to crack a smile. “I hate that this isn’t even close to the weirdest shit you’ve ever said to me.”

His thumb tugs the waist of his boxers a bit lower. The other hand is fiddling with the hem of his shirt. There’s still a damp patch on the shoulder from Steven’s mouth. Despite his reservations, there’s an easy sensuality to the way he moves, as if he’s right on the brink of writhing out of his clothes. Steven would intertwine their bodies again in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for Ryan’s ankle. He’ll have to ease into it instead, which seems appropriate. He did this to Ryan, after all. He’s the one who knocked him off his pedestal; it’s only fair that he put in the necessary work to help heal him and soothe him and work him back on top of it. Unless Ryan balks. A little selfishly, he hopes that’s not what happens. It’s such a rare occasion when Steven gets to share a bed with anyone. He’s already half slipping into another dream, one where he lets his hands and words wander with idle abandon. 

“I’ve never done anything with a guy,” Ryan blurts out, effectively snapping him out of it. 

It’s a very interesting choice of words. 

“But you’ve wanted to,” Steven says matter-of-factly, not quite awake enough to second guess his words. “Or at least wondered.” 

Ryan always did have a horrible poker face. Neither of them acknowledge the way it splinters like kindling, just like neither of them acknowledge that the object of his wondering is currently in Iceland, posting pictures from its hot springs with his girlfriend. 

“You can say it,” Steven reassures him. Atop the covers, their hands are separated by the tiniest fold of fabric. Steven wants to close that sliver of space so badly it sends a frisson of heat through his veins. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting.” 

“Maybe I should come to Bible study if these are the kinds of conclusions you guys come to.”

He says it sardonically, but this genuinely is something Steven has struggled with. Devotion and decadence are both huge presences in his life, and not ones he’s had the easiest time reconciling with each other. Finding his feet in LA, where an overwhelming majority of the population throws itself into dream-chasing at breakneck speed, has been quite a journey.

“We kind of do,” he admits, like having theological discussions while Ryan Bergara weighs the merits of getting his dick out is nothing but normal. “You’re allowed to want. It’s part of the human condition, you know? As long as you’re not pursuing something that’s, like, harmful to yourself or anyone else.”

Ryan regards him. There’s a calculating cast to his eyes and a hint of his old cheekiness tugging at his lips. “Is that what this is? You’re _pursuing_ me?”

“Sort of?” Steven hedges. “I prefer ‘trying to be a good host and take care of my friend,’ I guess. If that's easier to take in.” 

Nothing but silence from Ryan.

Steven grits his teeth. He’s ready to start babbling about going to have a shower, about how he’ll drive Ryan home afterward if he decides that’s what he wants, about how they can write this whole morning off as a weird fever dream. 

Then Ryan's brows hitch. 

“Okay,” he says, the barest tremor underlying his words. 

Steven holds his breath.

“Okay,” Ryan says again. He sounds more certain this time. “Bring it on, Steve. Take care of me.”

* * *

The rest of the weekend slips by in a pleasant haze.

Steven has church on Sunday morning, which is the only time he leaves the apartment.

Inside it, he learns so many things. 

There’s the way Ryan sighs and slackens under him, rosy mouth parted for a kiss.

There’s the sound he makes when he’s close to coming, letting out these wet little hitching breaths like he's been crying himself raw.

There’s the way Ryan complains about his arms and shoulders aching from having to crutch his way around everywhere, and there’s the way he lets Steven lay him facedown on the bed for an inexpert backrub. 

And of course, there’s Ryan being quintessentially _Ryan_ throughout it all. “Want me to take my pants off?”

“I thought you said all the pain was in your upper body.”

Ryan casts an amused glance over his shoulder. “I'm just saying, if you're so hell-bent on looking after me, we might as well have some fun with it.”

The belated realization practically smacks him in the face. “Ohhhh. Uh, if you want to?”

“Sure,” Ryan says easily. “Help me out?”

Every now and then, Steven pauses to think about just how readily Ryan gives himself over. 

There’s not a moment’s hesitation when he pushes himself onto one elbow to undo the drawstring of his sweatpants. The smooth shift of his back muscles is mesmerizing, all that power lingering just under the soft surface of his skin. He’s already placed himself directly into Steven’s hands, like a sentient present eager to start unwrapping itself. It would be hypocritical for Steven to judge him for it, but it does make him wonder just how well-worn these paths are in Ryan’s mind.

They never mention the Shane-shaped elephant in the room.

“Okay.” Steven works the sweatpants down his legs, careful not to snag Ryan’s boxers off at the same time. Afterward, he hesitates, ghosting his fingers across the compression wrap still encasing Ryan’s sprained ankle. “Jeez, I’m really sorry I did this.” 

Ryan lazily stretches out beneath him. “You’re treating me like royalty, dude. I’m surviving.”

“Let me make it up to you anyway.”

That’s the cornerstone of the foundation Steven’s built in his mind for himself. It doesn’t matter how many times Ryan insists he doesn’t owe him anything. Steven is stubborn in his own way and he’s going to insist right back that he does, and he needs Ryan to agree with him or this entire excuse dies on the vine.

“Let me do this for you.” He softens his voice, skimming it against Ryan’s jawline before pressing the smallest kiss just behind his ear. 

Steven is good at kissing. For a long time, he was convinced he’d be a hypocrite for doing anything _beyond_ kissing, so it was the one skill he had available to hone. He lets himself linger on that sensitive little patch of skin behind Ryan’s ear, nudging his nose against it, letting his breath waft across the dampness his mouth leaves behind.

“Please?” he asks, barely above a whisper, and gives a carefully restrained nip to the rim of his ear.

Ryan trembles around a laugh. His lips are pink and wet like he’s been biting them. It makes Steven want to lean in and do it for him. “Fine, fine, if it’s gonna weigh on your conscience _that_ much.”

“Thanks, bro, you know how fragile my conscience is.”

“Yeah, we’ve always said that about you,” Ryan agrees lightly. “Poor Steve and his dainty-ass conscience.”

Steven rolls his eyes and kisses him. This time, he pours everything he’s got into it.

Ryan curls a hand around his nape, his touch sinking just below the neck of Steven’s hoodie. His eyes are closed and Steven ventures a touch of his own, a quick press of his palm between his own thighs as he lets his teeth tug gently at the fullness of Ryan’s bottom lip.

“Jesus,” Ryan mumbles against his mouth. There’s a wantonness in his voice that makes Steven’s cock pulse in his jeans. 

He rides his hips up into the pressure of his hand once more. 

The other, he uses to cup the side of Ryan’s face, stroking gently over his stubbled cheek. His thumb settles easily into the little indentation under his lower lip, applying just enough pressure to guide his mouth open a little more, letting him in to taste more deeply.

Ryan lets out a helpless, hungry sound and urges him on.

When Steven breaks contact, Ryan’s lips are kiss-swollen to the point of obscenity and already parting around a protest.

“ _Steven_ ,” Ryan groans, “holy shit.”

“You,” Steven reminds him calmly, “are supposed to be relaxing.”

“Relaxing, my _ass_ ,” Ryan snorts. 

Steven opens his mouth, closes it again, and lets that skate on by. 

Ryan grumbles an awful lot for a self-proclaimed recipient of the royal treatment, but Steven wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s always admired Ryan’s ability to be so free with his reactions, whether he’s shrieking at a flickering lightbulb or laughing until he chokes over changing Steven’s desktop background to the Lakers emblem.

And, as it turns out, whether he’s whining about Steven trying to kill him or wailing as Steven trails kisses up his spine. 

Steven’s heard the borderline pornographic sounds he makes when he’s playing ball or picking up something heavy or just having a good stretch after sitting hunched over a screen for too long. They aren’t so different from the ones he makes when he’s getting his crutch-sore muscles drizzled with the massage oil Steven impulse-bought on Amazon Prime the day Ryan let himself be kissed for the first time. 

In a way, it’s comforting. Even with all the newness unfolding around them like petals of an unidentified flower, Ryan himself is still familiar. He deserves to know how much Steven values that. 

Steven tries to tell him so with each touch, letting his hands drift everywhere except Ryan’s injured ankle, part worship and part atonement. Covering him with kisses and caresses. Kneading warmth and oil into his skin until he gleams. Parting his mouth with his tongue, parting his thighs with his palms.

He’s so mesmerized by Ryan’s responsiveness that he barely registers that he’s still fully clothed until Ryan decides that he should take something off to even the scales. 

“You’re working so hard, dude, you’ve gotta be getting warm.” Ryan’s color is high, his eyes heavy and bright. “Maybe it’s time to lose a layer?”

Steven swallows, swaying in place when Ryan’s fingers creep under the hem of his hoodie. “Whatever you want.”

They touch each other. Ryan, gilded and ethereal in the lamplight, guides Steven out of his clothes and down against him, rocking them together. Steven helps him slip off his boxers and offers his every breath up for Ryan’s soft, slick mouth. That night, Ryan slides a hot, hesitant hand around him for the first time and they writhe Steven’s sheets into a froth around them.

_His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend._

If there’s any hint of a third presence in the room, it fades out to the tune of Ryan’s soft moans.

They never talk about it.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Steven does not run on truffles and caviar.

His work ethic is fueled by drive, matcha, and perfectionism. He stays late at Buzzfeed more often than not, even now, with his move to New York just around the corner, because he hates leaving loose ends for himself to pick back up in the morning. This week, though, he allows himself to change his habit just a bit.

The straw that breaks the camel’s back—or sprains the camel’s ankle—is that he feels guilty for leaving Ryan to his own devices. What if he stumbles getting a Lyft back to Steven’s place and sprains his other ankle? What if he goes against medical advice and tries to work out? What if he gets so bored he decides to set up a spirit box in every room of Steven’s apartment? 

What if he changes his mind about their tacit agreement?

Any one of these is concerning enough to merit Steven scaling back his hours. 

When he wraps up early so he and Ryan can leave together, Andrew stares at him as if he’s grown three heads.

Granted, this isn’t unusual for Andrew. Steven has been on the receiving end of that look many times. It’s never gotten his hackles up quite the way it does now, though.

“You’re leaving?” Andrew sounds deeply suspicious. “Now?”

Steven takes a moment to organize his thoughts so he doesn’t end up blurting out _I’m kind of having sex with Ryan Bergara_. “Uh, yeah. Just, you know...trying to get everything organized before I move.” 

It isn’t _not_ true.

“Ryan,” says Andrew. 

Steven barely manages not to choke. It’s a valiant performance. He half expects an Oscar to drop from the heavens.

“He’s still staying with you, right?” Andrew continues.

“What?” Steven gapes at him. “Oh. Yeah, he is. Just until he’s off the crutches.”

Andrew just looks at him, patient and calculating in that unsettlingly Andrew way.

“We’re friends!” Steven declares. He has the distinct impression he’s digging his own grave, but he can’t stop talking to save his life. “It’s not that weird, you know? In the grand scheme of things? Like, that one time for Lifestyle, I legit third-wheeled him on a bunch of dates with his ex and filmed the whole thing. And I made him eat balut that one time when he lost a bet. This is just me taking responsibility for my actions. I’m the reason he got hurt and he’s got a follow-up appointment next week, so I’m just kind of looking out for him until then.” 

Andrew doesn’t appear to have blinked even once.

“We give each other a hard time, but he’s always looked out for me, so it’s like...balance,” Steven trails off lamely. 

This actually is true. Ryan was one of the first people to take Steven under his wing when he was the weird new guy who tried too hard to please everyone and managed to put them off instead, even in famously weird LA. In retrospect, Steven knows now that he developed a crush on Ryan long before he realized it.

The lift of Andrew’s eyebrow speaks volumes. “He’s with you until at least next week? That's gotta be chaotic.”

“It's not so bad,” Steven replies, which also isn’t a lie. “He's good company.”

* * *

“You can fuck me if you want to,” Ryan murmurs sleepily as they kiss at the end of another massage session. Steven’s gotten better at them, learning the spots and pressures that make Ryan sigh like he’s sinking into a hot bath and the ones that make him yelp like he’s in pain, the ones that have him guiding Steven’s hand around his cock and Steven’s lips against his own, the ones that make him whimper _please, please keep touching me._

Something sharp and heated hooks at Steven from low in his belly.

“If _I_ want to? Not because you want me to?”

“I'm curious.” Ryan's ears are bright pink. “Only if you want to, though. I’m not trying to go and tempt you away from your whole purity thing.”

He’s sprawled naked in Steven’s bed, tracing the fading outline of a bite mark he left on the inside of Steven’s thigh. 

Steven can’t not say it. “This is...a pretty weird time to bring up purity.”

“Dude.” Ryan heaves an exasperated sigh. “I’m trying to tell you I’m down for bonetown, but in a way that shows I still totally respect your boundaries.” 

Ryan Bergara is quite possibly the only person on earth who can say that with complete earnesty. Steven adores that about him; it causes something to blaze alight in his chest, wild and euphoric and so sweet it makes him ache. 

Steven blinks a few times, charmed and bemused in equal measures, which tends to be a side effect of sharing space with Ryan. “I’m selective about who I share intimacy with, not a robot.”

“Prove it,” Ryan says sweetly, as if Steven hasn’t already been doing that, and smiles.

Steven tilts his head contemplatively. “Maybe you should turn on your stomach, then.”

Ryan draws a sharp, sudden breath. “Are you gonna?”

He could, Steven realizes. All he has to do is say the word and Ryan would let him do it. He could stretch him open on his fingers and watch him writhe in pleasure, mouth slack and cock hard and pleas spilling from him like a river. He could do almost anything and Ryan would probably welcome it with open, gorgeously sculpted arms. It’s a terrifying thought, one that won’t leave his mind.

“No.” Steven kisses him, strokes his thumb over his cheekbone until Ryan tilts his head enough to give it a nip. “But there’s something I want to try, too.”

He soothes the questioning look on Ryan’s face with another kiss, then reaches to rummage through one of his bedside table’s drawers.

Ryan’s eyes narrow. “Wait. Why do you have lube?”

“I masturbate,” Steven says unceremoniously. “Why do you think?”

“I dunno, because you and Andrew Ilnyckyj have done unspeakable things to each other on three different continents?”

Steven freezes.

Ryan slants a grin at him. “For all I know, anyway. You Worth It boys play it close to the vest.”

“We kind of do, don’t we,” Steven concedes, lifting one shoulder. He rests a hand on Ryan’s bare hip, rubbing a circle into the hollow of it with his fingertip. “You okay turning over for me? I think it'll be easiest to keep your ankle safe that way.”

“What are you trying to do exactly?”

Steven ducks his head, absurdly self-conscious. “Uh, your thighs?”

The look Ryan gives him is a perfect study in bewilderment. “What about them?”

“That’s what I’m trying to...to do.” Steven grimaces, willing him to get it. 

There’s a flash of understanding in Ryan’s eyes then, but because Ryan also happens to be an enormous brat, he doesn’t let Steven off that easy. “Very interesting. Tell me more.”

“Just push your freaking thighs together for me, Ryan,” Steven says through gritted teeth. 

With a bright peal of laughter, Ryan obliges. “All you had to say, pal.”

Steven settles over him without bothering to reply, face flaming, eyes slipping shut. He strokes himself once, guiding the head of his cock towards the apex of Ryan’s thighs, deliberately letting it brush along the cleft of his ass first. He’s purposefully careless as his drizzles lube between them, giving Ryan a little tease of what he was asking for earlier as he rides the length of his dick slow and heavy against his crack, letting him feel it.

Beneath him, Ryan vibrates with the force of his own moan.

Steven’s hand slides over the plump curve of Ryan’s ass, arousal unspooling languidly in his belly as he sinks himself between the join of his thighs. “That’s good, hold them nice and tight.” 

He braces himself, darts a glance over his shoulder to make sure Ryan’s ankle is safely out of range. And he moves, plundering the join of Ryan’s neck and shoulder with kisses, working his way up to the sensitive spot behind his ear. “So, while I’ve got you here, can I ask you something?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ryan sounds aghast and amused and turned on all at once. Steven preens.

“What you asked me to do...have you ever done anything like that?”

“Just say fuck, Steven,” Ryan grouses, then spasms with pleasure as Steven’s cockhead nudges up behind his balls. “ _Oh_ , holy shit.”

“I know you’ve never fucked a guy,” Steven says smoothly, gratified when the casual curse makes Ryan jolt yet again. “That’s not my question, though. I want to know if you’ve ever had anything inside you.” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ryan breathes.

“Exactly.” Steven adjusts his pace, rutting slow and dirty into the tight clench of his thighs. “Because if that’s where we’re going, I need to know where you’re coming from.”

“Yeah,” Ryan admits, a choked-out confession. “A little.”

Steven smiles into his hair. “Very interesting. Tell me more.”

“Goddamn it, Steve…” Ryan starts. 

“Please?” Steven wheedles, working a hand between them and the mattress. Ryan is so hard, for all his complaining, hot to the touch and damp at the tip. 

“Just fingers...you hear about the prostate one too many times and you’ve gotta plunge in and find out for yourself. Not like I had anyone lining up to do it for me.” 

He forbears particulars, but Steven can guess who he was imagining at the head of the line. 

Steven rewards him for his candor, lavishing him with gentle strokes and messy kisses. Ryan can’t resist reaching down to touch as well, fingers drifting hot and curious over the head of Steven’s cock each time it pushes between his legs. “Fuck, that’s…” Steven can’t see his face, but he can picture the pinch of his brows, the perfect O of his soft mouth. His thumb rubs a circle beneath the flare of Steven’s cockhead, delicate as the lap of an inquisitive tongue. “That’s so fucking weird, but in a good way. Is that how it’s gonna be when you put it in me, Stevie boy? You gonna lay me out and get me all messy?”

“Oh gosh,” Steven whimpers, and comes with a suddenness that shakes him to the core.

Ryan, carefully turning onto his back, looks entirely too smug about it. And, as Steven watches, he touches himself, bypassing his cock where it’s still hard and twitching between his slick thighs, in favor of swiping his fingers through a creamy streak of come and pressing them between his lips.

He holds eye contact with Steven the whole time. 

Steven can’t breathe, can’t tear his gaze away from him. 

When he gets his bearings, he returns the favor. He lets Ryan lap the taste of him from the fingers of one hand as he touches him everywhere within reach with the other. Steven pets him in long smooth strokes that travel over the strong slope of his shoulders, the dip of his hipbones, the litheness of his belly. By the time he retraces the same path with his mouth, Ryan’s body is a taut arch under him, his mouth parted in pleasure and his pulse visibly fluttering in his throat. 

_I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste._

He works his way lower, nuzzling his face against the burning length of Ryan’s cock, covering it with kisses just as he’s done the rest of Ryan's body. When he licks the precome from his slit, Ryan lets out a cry of delight and clutches at Steven’s hand. 

“Shhh,” Steven croons back mindlessly, already mouthing up the length of him. “’S okay, Ryan, I’ve got you, you’re okay.”

“ _Please_ ,” Ryan begs, and plants the heel of his uninjured leg into the mattress. “Just a finger, c’mon, please?”

Steven can’t refuse him anything.

He plunges their mouths together, curling his tongue deep. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Yeah, okay, whatever you want. Just relax for me, that’s it, good job.”

And he gathers up lube and come from the mess streaking Ryan’s thighs, kisses him into pliancy, and wriggles a finger up inside him. 

Ryan whimpers against his mouth. 

Steven gentles him through it with soft strokes of his tongue, moving his finger in tandem where it’s smothered in searing, silky heat.

“ _Thank you_.” 

It’s unclear which one of them says it, and it barely matters. Steven is lost in the moment, in the softness of Ryan’s body opening for him, in the act of pressing kiss after kiss to Ryan’s cheeks, his neck, his mouth as he urges him closer and closer to coming. 

And Ryan clutches him close and arches up for him, taking it with soft shocked sounds. 

* * *

  
  


“I'm like your kept boy or something,” Ryan muses a day or so later. “It's kind of kinky.”

This doesn’t seem like a very apt comparison to Steven. They’re both keeping to regular work hours and are at this very moment chowing down on sushi amidst the cardboard boxes stacked in Steven’s kitchen. None of that feels especially glamorous. “Dude, I'm not exactly chaining you to the bed and, uh, feeding you grapes. Whatever it is kept boys do.” 

Ryan shrugs amiably. “I wouldn't say no to either one, my man. I bet you've got the best grapes and the fanciest chains.”

“I don’t have chains, sorry,” Steven snorts, plucking a tuna roll between his chopsticks. “I think I’ve got some chess tournament medals lying around somewhere, that’s as good as you’re gonna get. And I don’t think I’d even want a kept boy. It sounds really high maintenance and, uh, probably involves a lot of paperwork.”

“Hot.” Ryan rolls his eyes. “Okay, but if you did. What would you do?”

“Ryan,” Steven says, eyeballing him right back, “if this is your way of telling me you want me to hand-feed you sushi…”

Ryan titters and wrinkles his nose. “Work with me here. I’m just curious. Would you want to tie me up with your old chess medals? Lick gold leaf off my chest? C’mon.” 

For a moment, Steven allows his imagination to run with the idea. Loosely binding him to the headboard, not with chains, but maybe with something softer and more inviting, like a few of his silk ties. He wouldn’t keep Ryan there with the intention of causing him discomfort. He’d make sure he had enough room to keep those flawless arms over his head without straining them, and with an ample amount of slack to let him turn over. 

For all anyone knows, Steven realizes with a start, he’s been doing this already. He could be keeping Ryan naked and tied to his bed all day, making him blissed out from kissing and orgasming, and then putting him back together in time for work the next day with the rest of the world none the wiser.

Steven dabs his mouth with a napkin. “Fine. I think what I’d want to do to this hypothetical kept boy is make the most of the time we’ve got while we’ve got it.”

“That is _such_ a cop-out,” Ryan protests.

“It’s true, though.” Steven picks up their plates. “But if you want a more interesting answer, you should probably go take a bath first.” 

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ryan maneuver himself on his crutches this fast.

As he loads the dishwasher, Steven mentally counts down the days. There’s one week before Shane returns, then barely another week after that before Steven officially uproots himself for New York, and at some point before then Ryan will be cleared to ditch the crutches and move back home. He and Ryan haven’t discussed this, and they’ve been dodging the duration of Shane’s Icelandic trip at every turn, but the silent understanding between them is clear: this is borrowed time.

Ryan emerges from his bath with pink cheeks, hair damp and unruly, and this time Steven doesn’t have to stop himself from sinking both hands into it the second they slide into bed. 

They spend the night playing with each other.

Steven nips love bites anyplace Ryan will let him, provided they’ll be covered by his clothes. He scatters marks all over the joins of his thighs, the tender flesh around his nipples. He guides Ryan’s legs over his shoulders, gently sucking his balls into his mouth just to feel Ryan writhe and clutch at his hair and whimper “oh my fucking god, _Steven_ ,” in the sweetest kind of sacrilege. 

“You know why I said you should take a bath?” Steven says conversationally from his vantage point between Ryan’s spread thighs.

Ryan blinks down at him. “I have a couple ideas.”

It’s impossible to resist basking in the scent of him, sweat and musk and the tea tree oil from Steven’s own body wash. Steven strings a trail of kisses down his thigh. “Did you? I noticed you were in there a while.”

Ryan’s breath spikes in, sharp and shaky, but there’s a devilish grin already overtaking his face. “Squeaky clean all over.”

“Good boy.” Steven flashes a cheery smile. “Tell me if you don’t like it and I’ll stop.” 

There’s something indescribably satisfying about the way Ryan’s eyes widen in realization. “Wait a sec, are you really gonna—” 

Steven gives him a pat on the knee and licks him lower still. 

It’s a good thing he’s moving soon because his neighbors have plenty of reasons to file a noise complaint and every one of them is named Ryan Bergara.

There isn’t a word for the sounds he makes as Steven flickers his tongue against him, but if Steven had to choose he’d probably settle on _salacious_

He eases Ryan towards his orgasm little by little, working him over with soft pushes of his tongue that have Ryan rocking into the contact and making breathless _ah-ah-ah_ sounds with each stroke. Steven cups his hips in his palms, guiding him into a rhythm as Ryan squirms on his tongue, trying to work it deeper inside him. 

Despite Ryan’s wail of loss, Steven pulls back to catch his breath and to take in the gorgeously obscene picture he makes. Ryan is spread out before him like a banquet, head tipped back in ecstasy, frantically stripping his cock with one hand. His belly button is pooled with precome, thighs spread wide with his knees still notched over Steven’s shoulders. Sweat gleams on his skin and he fucks his fist with fluid, wanton rolls of his hips, reveling in his own touch. Looking at him is like looking directly into the sun. 

And then Ryan opens his eyes, pinning Steven with his desperate gaze. “I can’t—I’m so fucking close,” he chokes out. 

“I know you are,” Steven murmurs, brushing his hair back from his brow. 

Ryan hiccups wetly, brings a hand up to pinch one of his nipples. Steven’s heart claws itself into his throat and lodges there, throbbing like a drum.

“You’re taking it so well, look at you,” he breathes. He touches Ryan where he’s been licked wet and open, watching as Ryan whimpers, his hole flexing against Steven’s fingertip as if his body can't bear not having something inside.

In this moment, Steven can't deny him anything.

“So, _so_ well,” Steven praises, working the very tip of a second finger inside him. “Is this okay? What can I do to help you come?”

In response, Ryan gives a strangled shout and paints his stomach with streaks of white.

Steven isn’t long in following, spilling into his own hand. The touch is more incidental than anything; just watching Ryan being overtaken by spasms of pleasure is enough to bring him right to the brink.

He wipes them both down before he can convince himself to give into exhaustion, then impulsively licks the last remnants of come from Ryan’s belly, taking the taste of him in like a sacrament.

Ryan is smiling at him when he finishes, a pleased, dazed look on his face. “Baby, baby, you’re not that innocent,” he singsongs as his eyes drift shut.

“I never said I was anything,” Steven points out, thumbing the corner of his mouth and reaching for a water bottle.

“You never did, huh,” Ryan acknowledges. “You’re an enigma, Stevie Lim. You’re gonna have to tell me your dirty secrets sometime.”

Steven combs his fingers through his hair, half smiling. “Maybe so. Sometime.” 

* * *

“The swelling is really going down,” Steven observes the day before Ryan’s follow-up appointment.

He regrets it almost immediately.

“Could've fooled me,” Ryan smirks, palming his crotch.

“You know what I meant!” Steven groans, burying his face in his hands. “I refuse to be brainwashed into accepting even more bad puns into my life.”

Working from home for the afternoon was a mistake. Ryan is a living, breathing, groping distraction. He’s a little giddy at the prospect of getting the all-clear to lose the crutches and it shows. Steven can barely respond to an email without being barraged with voracious kisses and wandering hands.

“How much more do you have to do?” Ryan presses for the umpteenth time, scooting closer to Steven at the kitchen island. “Not much, right?”

“Ryan,” Steven sighs, not looking up from his laptop, “take your clothes off.”

The response is instantaneous. “Hell yeah, man. My pleasure.” 

“I don’t know about that,” Steven says mildly. “Now go wait in the living room.” 

“Wait, _what_?” Ryan gives him an incredulous look with his shirt tangled around his arms. Steven is pretty sure the expression on his face qualifies as a bona fide pout. 

“I've got to finish up a few things. Go Netflix and chill for a little while.” 

Ryan, down to his boxers, gives him a smirk. “I do not think that means what you think it means.”

“Whatever. Just go watch something and chill out.” Steven hesitates, then goes for it. “But no, uh, playing with yourself.” 

Ryan's cock twitches. 

“Oh,” Steven says. “Wow, okay.”

“That was unexpected,” Ryan agrees. His cheeks are dashed with pink. “I’m gonna...go get chilling.”

An hour later, Steven has cleared away his work things and Ryan is fast asleep on the couch. Steven wishes he could say this was also unexpected. Still, there are worse ways to spend an evening than sipping green tea and marathoning episodes of Hyori’s Homestay while Ryan drowses with his head in his lap.

When Ryan finally moves, it’s with a grimace and the audible shift of a few vertebrae. “Man, I really did you a solid when I rescued you from sleeping out here, huh?”

Steven chuckles. “Yeah, this isn’t exactly the big comfy couch. Did you want to move?”

But Ryan just kisses him, soft and warm, before nestling his head back into his lap. “Nah. This is good. You’re a pretty cozy guy.” 

_Thy lips drip honey, my darling; honey and milk are under thy tongue._

It isn’t long before he dozes off again, small contented sounds escaping him each time Steven lightly scratches his scalp. It’s a little strange, Steven acknowledges, to be getting his fill of Korean domesticity with a naked guy snuggled up to him, but then again, Ryan runs hot and Steven likes to look his fill of beautiful things. 

His hands smooth steadily through Ryan’s hair, over his bare warm skin, and Ryan just sighs in his sleep and tucks himself closer with an ease that makes Steven’s ribs tighten. 

There’s something so effortlessly comfortable about the way they fit together, and he knows for certain that it has nothing to do with his crappy couch.

* * *

Ryan’s doctor clears him to lose the crutches, with the caveat that he keeps his ankle wrapped if there’s still pain and avoids doing anything too strenuous with it just yet. 

“Check it out!” he announces, standing on his own two feet in Steven’s living room. There's nothing on his ankle but a spectacular bruise. “I'm in the clear, dude.” 

A dozen selfish questions thunder through Steven’s skull, all of which he wants answered and none of which he wants to ask. _Does this mean our time is over? Does this mean you’re going home?_

“Let’s celebrate,” Ryan says, oblivious to Steven’s deer-in-the-headlights reaction.

“Sure, yeah.” Steven forces himself to sound chipper. “What do you think? You want to order something for dinner? Set your crutches on fire? Go out dancing?”

Ryan nods decisively. “Totally. To the food, I mean. I’m donating the crutches. And yes to dancing, but only if it’s the horizontal tango.” 

“Oh my god,” Steven groans. “Why do I ever ask you anything?”

Ryan grins. “Chill out, Limster, you might like the rest of the answer.”

“ _Limster_?”

“I’m thinking you could fuck me.” 

Steven swallows.

“Like, full-on, dick-in-butt stuff,” Ryan continues merrily. “Since you don’t have to worry about my ankle, we can really go for it.”

Somehow, Steven manages to find his voice. “I...okay. We can make that happen. But I don’t have any condoms.”

Ryan shrugs. “I think maybe there's one in my wallet. Or I can run out—walk carefully out, I mean—and buy some. ” He levels Steven with a calm, assessing gaze. “Do we need one, though?”

* * *

Once again, Steven sends up a silent prayer that his neighbors don’t file any noise complaints, but does absolutely nothing to stem the source of them.

Steven draws out the prepping process more than necessary, and he knows it. But it isn’t his fault Ryan is so stunning to watch when he’s all flushed and heavy-eyed between kisses. He’s got two fingers buried inside him and Ryan is clutching at his arms to keep from touching himself, hard enough to leave fingertip bruises. Steven desperately hopes he does. 

He could slide a hand between his thighs and Ryan would probably be coming with the first involuntary thrust of his cock into Steven’s fist, that’s how strung out he is. But Steven bides his time, stretches out the gratification just for the sake of seeing Ryan writhe and strain and plead for him with every muscle. As he slowly works him open with a third slick finger, another drop of precome beads and leaks down the length of his cock. 

“Steven,” Ryan says, incongruously calm and incongruously using his actual name, “if you don’t fuck me right now, I will die, and I don’t think your dainty conscience can handle that.”

The first nudge of Steven’s cock against his hole fails utterly. Ryan lets out a pained gasp and Steven withdraws right away, penitently pressing his mouth and hands over all the skin he can. “Sorry, sorry, I’m gonna make it better, you’re okay, I promise, you’re okay.”

“If I have a defective ass, I will also die,” Ryan informs him, sounding a bit strained. “Delete my search history.”

“Shh, just a second, let me make it better, let me…” Steven trails off into a slew of messy kisses over Ryan’s shoulders as he gently presses into him with his fingers once more, finding the spot that makes Ryan's body jolt in his arms. “Ohhh, there it is.”

This time, Ryan relaxes just enough to let the head of Steven’s cock breach him. 

“Fuck,” Ryan’s voice breaks. “Oh fuck, keep going.”

Then he goes tense all over, inner muscles squeezing so tight it rakes a whimper out of Steven’s throat. He smothers himself in the sweat-glossy nook of Ryan’s nape. “I-I’m not gonna move until you say, all right?” he promises, holding perfectly still even though his body is aching to press forward, to sheathe his cock in the heat of Ryan’s ass, to _fuck_. 

Teeth gritted, he feels his cock gush a pulse of precome, as if the hot clench of Ryan’s muscles is milking it right out of him. 

“Oh god,” Ryan whimpers again. “I can _feel—_ ”

Then his breath catches, his spine ripples, and he convulses so suddenly Steven thinks he’s having a panic attack for a split second.

A split second later, comprehension dawns. “Did you just—” 

Ryan is laughing, surprised and delighted and a little stunned. “Sure did. You can move now, I’m ready.” 

And Steven does. Ryan, languid in the aftermath of his orgasm, releases enough tension for Steven to sink the rest of the way inside him. His fingers flex where they’re splayed over Ryan’s hips.

“You're doing it,” Steven chokes out, scarcely believing it himself. Carefully, he draws back and eases forward, letting Ryan accommodate to the feeling of Steven’s cock inside him.

Ryan laughs again, breathlessly, as Steven starts rocking into him. “Jesus Christ, you're fucking me.” 

“Are you okay? What does it feel like?” 

Ryan huffs out a breath, screwing up his face as he glances at Steven over his shoulder. “Strange at first...so good, though, so full. Keep going, it’s good, wanna feel it.”

Steven doesn’t need to be told twice. He snaps his hips forward, each thrust drawing another gasp out of Ryan. He buries himself inside him, teeth nipping at his nape, hands encircling his wrists. His own orgasm takes him by surprise, ripping through him in time to the desperate, eager pulse of Ryan’s body. Steven spills inside him with a muffled shout, and Ryan arches underneath him, clenching up tight and greedy for it.

“You're too good at all this for it to be your first time,” Ryan says sleepily, once the stars have cleared from Steven’s vision and they’re entwined on top of his ruined sheets. Ryan’s mouth is already swollen from kisses, but he kisses him again anyway. “Jerking off isn't the only reason you have lube, is it?”

Steven doesn't answer him, just strokes his hair and fills his lungs with his scent and curls around him like a cloak. “Go to sleep, Ryan.”

“Shane’s coming back tomorrow,” Ryan mumbles. “He emailed me his flight info.”

“I know,” Steven murmurs. 

“You can take me back home tomorrow too, then I’ll be out of your fancy hair.” 

Steven squeezes his eyes closed. “I know,” he says again.

For a long time, he blocks out everything but warmth of Ryan’s skin, the scent of his hair, the way he practically purrs like a satisfied cat from Steven kissing down his back.

_Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine._

And later, when Ryan falls into a sated, statuesque sleep, Steven lies awake long afterward. 

Tomorrow, he’ll drop Ryan back off at his place, Ryan will go back to pretending not to be head over heels in love with Shane, and Steven will be less than two weeks away from New York. Their lives will shift back onto the usual tracks and equilibrium will be restored. 

But not yet. They have a few fragments of time left to themselves and he’s going to hold onto them for as long as he can, until they slip away and Ryan slips with them. 

Until then, he’s still Steven's responsibility. Until then, Steven can let himself keep him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm makemadej on tumblr and I highly doubt Steven knows what topstitching is, come say hi!


End file.
